Page 20 of My Forbidden Billionaire

I do as she says, and soon the car is filled with the sound of young love stories set to an upbeat rhythm.

The sun is beginning to rise, and the morning dew twinkles like diamonds on the grass. As we drive through the city, Clem is singing along—loudly—to the songs she loves, and waving to all who pass us by.

“How do you have so much energy every morning?” I chuckle. “It’s like an endless supply of joy runs through your veins.”

Clem shrugs but keeps on singing, her spirit never dampens no matter how long or tiring the night before was. I can’t help but feel proud of my daughter. She truly is a magical little thing.

As we arrive at the school gates, I catch a glimpse of Josephine standing there, waiting to greet the students upon their arrival. She looks breathtaking. Her blonde hair glitters in the morning sunlight as she waves at me with a smile that could light up the entire sky.

I get out and open the door for Clementine. As she jumps out of the car, all eyes are on her—on us. I can feel the stares and hear the whispers, “Look, it’s Mr. Carlton!”

Just then I hear a familiar voice above the noise. “Good morning, Mr. Carlton! Lovely day, isn’t it?” Miss Andrews greets me, her eyes sparkling.

I feel my cheeks heat up as I turn to her. “Good morning, Miss Andrews. It certainly is a beautiful day,” I reply, trying to keep the nervousness out of my voice.

Her gaze lingers on me for a moment longer than necessary before she turns to Clementine. “Good morning, sweetie. Are you ready for another day of learning?”

Clementine nods eagerly, grinning from ear to ear. “Yes, Miss Andrews!” She leans in for a hug and my heart swells as I watch them embrace—Miss Andrews’ warm smile radiates with an appreciation for the child standing in front of her—my child.

Then Clementine wraps her arms around my waist in a tight hug. “Bye, Daddy,” she says in her sweet little voice before running off to join her friends.

“Bye, sweet pea. I love you!” I call out, but she’s already disappeared into the crowd of students.

“Well, I hope you have a good day, Mr. Carlton. It was really nice seeing you again,” Miss Andrews says, her voice is soft and gentle, but her eyes hold a hint of mischief. I can’t help but feel my heart skip a beat as I look into her eyes.

“Likewise, Miss Andrews. Have a good day as well,” I reply, trying to keep my cool.

As I watch her walk away, I can’t help but feel a sense of longing. Josephine Andrews is the epitome of grace and beauty, and every time I see her, my heart races.

Even more so, seeing her interact with my daughter.

As I drive to the office, my mind replays the way Josephine looked at me. Does she feel the same way I do?

Chapter Eight

Josephine

Despite my self-imposed rule against dating the father of a student, I haven’t been able to get Jacob Carlton out of my head.

It’s not just his good looks or charming personality that have caught my attention. It’s the way he interacts with his daughter and the love he has for her that melts my heart.

Clementine is incredibly smart, and her bright smile and infectious energy lights up the classroom. I find myself looking forward to seeing her every day. And I can’t help but want to know more about the man who raised such a beautiful and amazing child.

The school is in an uproar today. After the first month of the fall semester, Jameson Juniper Hall is organizing its first parent-student meeting—an Open House. The first of many to come, as I’m told by the rest of the staff.

Ms. Abadie has been organizing this meeting with the precision and military panache of a pit bull. The more I’ve witnessed this woman go about her business at the school, the more I’ve come to realize that she reminds me of Trunchbull, the infamous teacher Roald Dahl wrote about in his beloved book Matilda. And given the way she treats the other teachers here, I’m sure no one would object to one of the kids putting some kind of frog or newt in her water glass.

Today, the students are restless. Some are happy to have their parents join them for a few hours at school, especially the little ones. While others—the older students—in particular, look put out and even bothered—thinking they’re “too cool” to hang out with their mom and dad.

Nonetheless, I’m having a hard time concentrating.

“Yes, Anthony?”

“I don’t understand this, Miss Andrews. This … Is it him, or is it the painting? Or … is the painting alive? Is this a horror movie like The Exorcist?”

“How can it be a horror movie, Anthony, if we’re discussing a novel?” I reply patiently.

“But I don’t get it…” he whines. “How can a painting … do things? Unless it’s possessed or something! Is this book written by Jordan Peele?”

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